Down

by Kirsten Weiss

  Connor followed me in his squad car to the bank. Escorting me inside, he waited outside the private room while the teller brought me the narrow, metal box.

  I unlocked and opened it. Inside were legal documents and ten gold coins we’d inherited from our aunt. I pushed the coins to the back and gently set the books inside. Regretfully, I closed the box on them. How I would have loved to examine the books. But my examination wouldn’t tell me their worth. I’d need to do research, possibly consult experts. Van Oss wouldn’t be one of those experts.

  I rang for the teller.

  Smiling, she took the case off my hands and escorted me into the bank’s green-carpeted waiting area. Beside a high table, Connor chatted with Councilman Woodley.

  Connor glanced at me. “Everything all right?”

  I peeled off the cotton gloves. “Yep. Hello, Council– I mean Steve.”

  “Lenore.” He smoothed his silver goatee. “Deputy Hernandez was just telling me the news about the break-in at Mike’s. Shocking.”

  “It’s been one surprise after another,” I muttered.

  The councilman cocked his head. “There’ve been others?”

  “Mike dealt in rare, occult books.” I might have an information source in Woodley. The councilman had said he’d known Mike for years. “I’d no idea he had an interest in the occult, did you?”

  The councilman chuckled. “His interest was the books, not the supernatural. He never took that sort of thing seriously.”

  My throat tightened. Was that why Mike had kept his side business secret from me? Because he didn’t believe, and knew his disbelief in the face of my shamanism would sting? “I’d no idea he dealt in rare books at all.”

  “Neither did I,” Woodley said. “I thought he’d given that up years ago. But why are you taking an interest in the business?”

  “Mike left it to me,” I said bleakly. “All of the business – his bookstore and the rare books. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Run the bookstore, of course,” Woodley said. “You were meant to be there. Sell the rare books to the highest bidder. There are auctioneers for that sort of thing, aren’t there?”

  I studied him, my brow wrinkling. Could he have known about Mike’s million-dollar find?

  Connor cleared his throat. “Speaking of your bookstore, we should check it out.”

  The councilman’s white brows rose. “Trouble?”

  “Some vandals,” I said. “Nothing serious.”

  He shook his head. “Vandalism here, in Doyle? It’s hard to believe how times have changed. If you need any help, let me know. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at Mike’s old books. I don’t know much about the occult, but I do enjoy the smell of old paper.”

  We said our goodbyes. Casually, Connor laid his broad hand on the curve of my back as he escorted me from the bank, and my breath quickened.

  He drove me to the bookstore, parking in the alley in the rear. Snapping on latex gloves, Connor examined the scratch marks around the lock. He straightened. “These look like the marks I found around Mike’s back door today.”

  “You think that’s how the man got into his house?”

  “Maybe. I’m going to dust for prints.” He moved away from me and said something into the radio clipped to his collar. He spoke too low for me to hear, and the response was too garbled for me to understand. Connor nodded. “Owen’s going to print Mike’s place, just in case the guy took his gloves off at some point.”

  “You didn’t tell him about the secret room, did you?” I asked, anxious.

  He angled his head. “No, but is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

  “I guess not,” I said. “I just don’t like revealing all Mike’s secrets. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “The intruder wasn’t in that room, so there’s no need to print it.”

  “So you won’t tell him?”

  “He’s my partner. He’ll kill me if I don’t tell him. Lenore, it’s a secret room!” His eyes crinkled with boyish delight.

  “Then you need to swear him to secrecy.”

  “In blood beneath a full moon.” He flashed a smile and as quickly sobered. “You said there was vandalism?”

  I nodded and handed him the key. He unlocked the door and walked inside, stopping short at the fallen bookcase. Tumbled boxes, a river of books pouring from their cardboard. The desk, with its drawers gaping. The computer monitor, its screen cracked on the concrete floor.

  He blew out his breath. “In my professional opinion, I’d say you’ve been vandalized. Did you touch anything?”

  “I picked up some of the papers.”

  “Lenore,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Stop touching things at crime scenes.”

  “I’m sorry! I thought it was Peter or Gretel.”

  “You thought they’d trashed the place?” he asked. “Why?”

  “Because they still have their key, and they weren’t happy I’d inherited Mike’s business.”

  He arched a brow. “So you decided the best thing to do was let it slide.”

  “Peter is Mike’s nephew. I didn’t want to make things worse. And then I saw the scuffs around the lock and thought maybe it wasn’t them and someone else had broken in.”

  “All right. I’ll need to get your prints so I can separate them out.”

  Then he’d need Peter and Gretel’s as well. They’d love that. “There were scuff marks on one of the locked drawers beneath the register too.”

  “Which you, of course, touched.”

  “I didn’t notice the damage until later.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  My face warmed. “It’s a yes.”

  “Okay. I’m going to take prints. You go stand somewhere else and don’t touch anything.”

  I edged around the fallen bookcase. Picking my way past boxes, I grabbed the doorknob to the bookstore.

  “Lenore!” He glared from me to the doorknob.

  I winced. “Sorry.” But it was too late now, so I pulled open the door and walked into the shop.

  The heat was smothering, a thick, musty coil. I resisted the temptation to open a window and turned on the fan. In the mystery section, I found a book I’d been meaning to read. I sat on the thin carpet, my back against the end of a wooden shelf, and read.

  The writer was good, hooking me from page one, and soon I was lost in the story. The author knew how to observe things, and her metaphors were marvelous. I wondered if she wrote poetry. Then I stopped wondering and let the story take me.

  Connor cleared his throat. “Lenore?”

  I looked up.

  He unpeeled his latex gloves.

  “You can’t be done already,” I said.

  “We’ve been here forty minutes.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised to find I was a quarter of the way through the book. “I assumed when you said ‘touch nothing’ you didn’t mean the books.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re good.” He sat beside me, stretching out his long legs on the carpet and nudged me with his shoulder. “How’s the book?”

  “So good, I didn’t realize forty minutes had passed,” I said, sheepish. “Did you find anything?”

  “Lots of prints, but I can’t tell you yet who they belong to. Now it’s your turn.” He held out a device that looked like a smartphone attached to a giant, black battery case. There was a white box in the center of the blue screen. “Give me your hand.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “We’re high-tech in Doyle.”

  I snorted. “Right.” But I let him take my hand.

  His strong fingers wrapped around mine, and I hoped he didn’t notice the flutter of my pulse. He pressed my thumb to the screen. There was a beep, and he took my index finger, then the other fingers, pressing each to the screen and getting prints.

  “What about in there?” I asked, my mouth dry, and I nodded to the back room.

  “I had to do it the old fashioned way – fingerprint powder and a brush.” He rele
ased my hand.

  “You’re multi-talented.”

  He laughed. “Right. I’m a real Renaissance man.”

  “So what next?”

  “Next I see if we get a hit off any of the prints I took, and you do whatever you would normally do.”

  “I’d normally go to the hospital to see how Mr. Pivens is doing.”

  “That’s a good idea,” he said.

  “And then I’d clean up the storage room.”

  “You’re going to need help with that.”

  “Are you offering?”

  “Maybe. My shift ends at five. You buy me dinner afterwards, I might see myself clear to helping you out.”

  Was he…? Was this…? “That sounds fair,” I said, my voice thin.

  “Then it’s a date.” He sprang to his feet and helped me up. “I’ll meet you here at six.”

  “Okay.” Dazed, I followed him to the storeroom, watched him clamber over the boxes and cases to the rear door. This wasn’t a real date, was it? Because I couldn’t do a real date. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to tell him that without sounding like a complete jerk.

  He waved over his shoulder, without looking back, and left. The door clanged shut behind him.

  Damn. I had a date.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sunlight glinted through the tops of the pines, casting prison bars across the highway. In spite of the heat, I had the windows rolled down and the air conditioner off. I wanted fresh air, the sweet scent of the mountains.

  The hospital had told me Mr. Pivens was resting comfortably, and I could visit. But my stomach burned with anxiety. Doctor Toeller spent a lot of time at the hospital, and I worried about what she might do to Mr. Pivens. The lawyer’s heart attack had seemed natural, but nothing was as it seemed in Doyle.

  And I really hated hospitals.

  I parked in the wide lot. Bracing myself, I forced myself to enter the hospital’s multi-story, blue-glass sarcophagus. Its cold miasma washed over me as soon as I walked through its sliding doors.

  The new hospital had been built over the old, so it was chock-full of ghosts. They wandered the hallways wearing hospital gowns and desperate, confused expressions. Blue light from the windows tinted their skin, as if they’d been asphyxiated. Some of the spirits were missing limbs, others were more mangled. Doyle had its share of car accidents on the winding mountain highway, my father’s included.

  I kept my gaze forward, trying not to make eye contact. But I had to stop at the visitor’s desk to learn where Mr. Pivens was.

  A pleasant, round-faced woman smiled up at me. I knew she wasn’t from Doyle, because her face was worn, her skin ashy. A volunteer from a nearby town, I guessed. Our hospital served the entire county.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m here to visit Harold Pivens. I called earlier, and the hospital said I could visit, but they were in the process of moving him to a room and didn’t know the number yet.”

  “Let me check.” She scanned her computer monitor. “Mr. Pivens?”

  I shifted my weight. “Yes, Harold Pivens.”

  A woman, her hospital gown stained red at the abdomen, came to stand beside me. She’d probably been in her early twenties when she’d died. Her auburn hair reminded me of Karin’s.

  “Pivens, Pivens...” the volunteer muttered.

  “Where’s my baby?” the ghost asked me, her voice barely above a whisper.

  My hands fisted on the desk. “He was admitted today.”

  “I woke up, and he was gone. Everyone was gone.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Where is everyone? Why won’t anyone talk to me?”

  I glanced sideways at her. “What’s your name?” I asked in a low voice.

  She started. “I’m Pamela Andrews,” the ghost said eagerly. “My baby’s name is Mark. That’s what we agreed to name it.”

  “Martha Shelton,” the volunteer said, not looking up from the computer. “And yours?”

  “I’m Lenore,” I said.

  “Is my baby here? Where is he?” the ghost demanded.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been at the hospital,” I said to the volunteer. “Not since my cousin, Pam Andrews died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Martha said.

  “I’m not dead,” the ghost said. “Why did you tell her I was dead? I’m right here!”

  “Complications in childbirth,” I said to the volunteer.

  Martha met my gaze, her broad face furrowed in sympathy. “I remember her. I was here when it happened. Such a tragedy. Her husband was devastated. Losing his wife and baby all at once.”

  “What? My baby? What is she talking about?” The ghost reached to clutch at me, but her hands passed through my arm. Her touch left an icy trail that made me gasp.

  My vision blurred. The last things I wanted to think about were dead mothers or dead children. Not with my own sister pregnant and doomed.

  “My baby’s not dead!” The ghost slammed her fist on the counter, and the computer rattled.

  Martha frowned, tapping the monitor. “The screen just... Oh, there it is again. Harold Pivens. Room three-oh-eight.”

  “Thank you.” I hurried to the elevator.

  The ghost hurried after me. “Tell me what happened. Where is my son?”

  “I’m so sorry, but your son has passed on.” I dug my cell phone from my purse and clapped it to my ear – my best defense against looking crazy. “You’ll find him on the other side.”

  “What other side? There is no other side.”

  “Do you see a light?” I paused in front of the elevator and smiled at a middle aged woman. An elderly woman in a knee-length, violet skirt leaned heavily on her arm.

  “A light? There’s no light. There’s no other side. I don’t believe in that garbage.”

  “You’ll have to look to find it,” I said. “All you have to do is believe to see.”

  “But what if I look and there’s nothing there?”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “Then you’re not looking hard enough.” Atheist ghosts were the hardest to cross over. They didn’t believe in anything. That made it harder for them to accept they were ghosts, and even harder (for some reason) to believe there was a better place for them.

  “You’re lying to me. Why are you lying to me?”

  I waited for the two women to make their way into the elevator, then followed.

  “When you’re ready, I’ll help.” I said to the ghost and pushed the button for the third floor.

  “You’re lying!”

  The elevator doors rumbled closed.

  “Do they allow cell phones in here?” the elderly woman asked pointedly.

  “It depends on what section of the hospital you’re in,” I said. “They’ve got signs where phones are banned. I spent a lot of time here last year.” Enough time to read every single sign. Twice.

  The doors slid open on the third floor.

  I smiled at the women and stepped into the green-carpeted hallway. Opposite, picture windows looked out over a sunlit patio.

  I turned right and walked to the double doors that led to the nurses’ station. After getting turned around twice, I finally found my way to Mr. Pivens’s room.

  A gray curtain on a curving track was drawn across the door. I rapped on the doorframe.

  “Come in,” a weak, masculine voice croaked.

  Apprehensive, I drew aside the heavy curtain and stepped inside. The top of the bed was angled up at a thirty-degree angle. Sand-colored blankets puddled around the lawyer’s waist.

  He smiled, his skin whey-like. “Ms. Bonheim. How nice of you to stop by for a visit.”

  I ran a jerky hand over my hair. “How are you?”

  “Only a mild heart attack. I’ll be back on my feet in no time. Did the police catch the blackguard?”

  “I don’t think so. They found marks on the back door. They think the lock may have been picked.”

  “Marks on the lock?” he asked
. “Didn’t you say you found scratches on the lock to your storeroom?”

  “Yes. The police took prints of my storeroom today.”

  “Someone’s after that book.” He raised his head. “Miss Bonheim, you must be careful.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve moved the three books to my safe deposit box.”

  “I’m less worried about the books’ safety than your own,” he said dryly. “You could have been hurt.”

  My ribs squeezed. “You were hurt.”

  “This?” He motioned with his hand, and it fell, limp, to the blanket. “I can hardly blame the burglar for my weak heart.”

  The curtain swept aside, and Doctor Toeller strolled in, reading a chart.

  I took a quick step backwards, fear speeding my heart. Stay careful. Stay cool. Stay calm.

  The doctor’s skin was luminous, her hair shining like spun silver and gold. Her lab coat was an unearthly shade of white. She was so obviously not of this world – how had we been fooled for so long? Careful.

  “Mr. Pivens, I’ve looked at...” She glanced up, noticed me, and smiled. There was something feral in the curve of her lips. “Lenore. What are you doing here?”

  “I just stopped by to see how Mr. Pivens was doing,” I said, my words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t know you were his doctor.” She knew I knew. I didn’t have to worry about hiding it. So why was my blood hammering in my skull?

  “Mike said wonderful things about this good lady,” the lawyer said. “If it weren’t for Doctor Toeller, we wouldn’t have this new, state-of-the-art hospital. Mike may have been a bit of a Luddite, but I’m determined to keep up with the times. The human brain is like a shark. It must keep moving forward or die. So what is the word, good Doctor?”

  She glanced at me and hesitated.

  “You can speak in front of her,” he said. “Though Ms. Bonheim, perhaps you do not wish to hear? The broken down workings of an elderly body can be distressing.”

  I clasped his hand. Mine was moist. “I’m willing if you are.”

  “I have good news,” Toeller said. “Your arteries are clear. There’s no sign of heart disease.”

  “Then why the devil did I have a heart attack?” the lawyer asked.

  “It’s called a coronary artery spasm,” she said. “It temporarily cuts off blood flow to the artery, and can be caused by drug abuse–”